JOHN RYLEY ROBINSON, LL.D.

"Poets, inspired, write only for a name,

And think their labours well repay'd with fame."

CONGREVE, from OVID.

Though not a native of, or resident in, Cleveland or South Durham, John Ryley Robinson may be fitly included in this volume, as a poet who has sung on Cleveland scenes; and, in that sense, he is more of a Cleveland bard than some who, by birth or residence, have belonged to the district. For after all, the place of our birth is one of those circumstances over which we ourselves have no control whatever; and, whilst it is well to search out and to record every spot where Genius has nestled or wrestled, we ought never to forget that the poet, the painter, the sculptor, the patriot, the philosopher, and the philanthropist, belong to all humanity; and that, wherever their fate may be cast, their influence, whether local or national at first, is eventually felt by the whole human race. Nor am I quite so strict in limiting my notices to the poets and prose writers of my own immediate neighbourhood, as I otherwise might be, seeing that (as stated in the Introduction*) the present volume is but the germ of a much more extensive work, intended to include the whole northern counties.

John Ryley Robinson was born at Dewsbury on the fifth of September, 1829; and was the son of Joshua Robinson, a popular local preacher amongst the Wesleyan Methodists, who had married Sarah, daughter of John Ryley, master of the Leeds Grammar School; to whom our author alludes, in his "Yorkshire Worthies,t" as

* See page 18.

Published as No. 5 of the North of England Tractates.

"John Ryley, who

For fifty years contributed to all
The scientific journals of the day,

And wrote the History of Leeds."

We are all more or less poets in our infancy: it is only when false education and other untoward circumstances have done their evil work upon us, that we cease to live poetry; for, as WORDSWORTH has well observed, "there are many poets who ne'er pen their inspirations." But our author might say with POPE:

"As yet a child, and all unknown to fame,

I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came." In his tenth year we find him sending his sister one of those beautiful blue-petalled and golden-eyed wild-flowers, so common along our highways and byways, especially_in_damp situations, the Myosotis palustris, poetically called the Forgetme-not, and most unpoetically the Water Scorpion Grass; which GOETHE calls "the loveliest flower, the fairest of the fair," and which all the German poets seem to love and have a kindly word for. The following verses, by the youthful bard, accompanied the flower of memory:

"This beauteous flower, by nature wrought,
Will whisper thee Forget-me-not,"

In pleasure sweet, in pain severe,
Oh! think of me, my sister dear.

Still think of me, if far away

In other lands I chance to stray;

A wanderer's life may yet be mine,

Then let me breathe a prayer for thine:

May every earthly blessing be,

Until life's close, surrounding thee;

Domestic joys, and friendship's charms,

Crown'd with that hope which Death disarms.

Should Fortune smile upon my aims,

I'll recognise a sister's claims,
And gladly aid to smooth thy lot,
To prove that thou art not forgot.

But, if to pain and grief I bow,
And happiness I may not know,
Let flowers like this reminders be,
And help thee-to remember me."

Though our bard has commendably cultivated his poetical powers, he has by no means been indifferent to other studies; not being one of those fools who imagine that poetry and the exact sciences are diametrically opposite, and that a poet must of necessity be an impracticable person, if not an actual lunatic. At school, he had distinguished himself by an ardent devotion to languages, especially the ancient Greek; and the arts and sciences have ever had charms for him. He has had the honour of being elected Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society-the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland-the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, Copenhagen-and member of the Geological Society of Edinburgh-the Royal Asiatic Society-the German Oriental Society-the Asiatic Society of Paris-and I know not how many beside; and the senate of Tusculum College, at Greenville, in Tennessee, recently conferred upon him the high degree of LL. D. Though still residing at his native Dewsbury, he has rambled in search of beauty and information, through most of the United Kingdom, France, Italy, and Switzerland, climbing Alpine summits in the Mont Blanc range with the same vigour that had taken him to the top of Snowdon and other celebrated mountains of his native land. After visiting Italy, he writes:

"Is this proud Rome?

Once mistress of the world: whose empire vast,
Stretch'd from the wild Atlantic's stormy shore
To India's burning plains: from northern climes,
Where the stern Grampians rear their snow-clad heads,
To the Sahara's boundless desert sands:

Alas! how fallen from her high estate !

Her wealth, magnificence, and power all gone,

And, but these ruins, (splendid in decay,)
Left, by the hand of time, to show how vain

The boasted title of Eternal Rome.'

Thou glorious city of the Cæsars, where
The grandest monuments of ages past
Still stand erect, and by their presence show,
More forcibly than strongest words could speak,
How great the change which hath come over thee,
First city of the world. In ancient times
Thy will was law. Thy sons their courage proved
On many well-fought fields. Thy senators
Made laws for all mankind: but now, alas!

What city on the earth is like to thee?

Behind all Christendom. Thy people, (crush'd

'Neath the despotic power of papal sway,)

Scarce call their lives their own; thick darkness spreads

Its gloomy mantle o'er thy sacred shrines,

Thy hovels, and thy gorgeous palaces.

Oh! that a ray of heavenly light would pierce
And dissipate the night which now hangs o'er
The modern Babylon.'

Our bard has evidently no wish to drag us back again to the superstition and tyranny of Rome, as the following poem will show; which I venture to quote, albeit that by doing so I may again subject myself to a flagellation from the editorial hands of Mr. JOHN GOUGH NICHOLS, F. S. A., who is not ashamed to state that my "dislike of the Church of Rome is expressed in almost every page of this book, and not in the most delicate phraseology," a departure from truth unworthy of a great antiquary. At a time when the archbishops, bishops, and other dignitaries of the Church of England, which some of us have been taught to regard as the great barrier against papal usurpation, are seeking to endow the popish priests and give to their bishops seats in parliament, simple Protestants like myself may be excused that we value those liberties which our protestant forefathers laid down their lives so bravely to obtain for us, more than we do all the writings of all the John Gough Nicholses in the universe. John had better skip this poem, for it evidently has too much of the true protestant metal in it to ring to his pleasure.

A DREAM.

"I SLEPT, but my sleep was troubled,
For I dreamt of coming ill,

And, so much like life it seem'd to be,

That its memory haunts me still:

For I dreamt of a beautiful island,

The mistress of the sea,

Which, Tradition said, had but raised its head

Within man's memory;

And, for fear lest the roaring waters

Should encroach upon its shore,

They built strong dykes, and placed warders there

To guard them evermore.

And all seem'd safe on the land reclaim'd,
Rich harvests were gather'd in,

Whilst hymns of praise they sweetly raised,
And shunn'd the approach of sin;
But, by and bye, a rumour came,

The sea was rising higher,

Yet they laugh'd at those who gave alarm,
Though the waves were creeping nigher.
Till at length its approach was so surely seen,
They could doubt its truth no more,
For the churches which once stood far inland
Were now on the crumbling shore:

Yet they ate and drank, and carelessly slept,
Regardless of coming ill,

For the warders, they said, safe watch had kept,
And would surely keep it still.

But, as time roll'd on, it was whisper'd low
That the warders themselves were seen

To open the flood-gates, admitting the tide
Where the land had lately been.

Yet they felt no fear, though the waters rose,
And rapidly onward came,

Nor made they an effort to mend the dykes,

Lost pastures to reclaim.

I saw that the banks most insecure

Were those where the ladies dwelt;

And, though treacherous waters were oozing through,

Alas! no fear was felt

Till it seem'd to require but a stormy night,

And winter was close at hand,

To fulfil the threaten'd work of death

And engulph the fated land.

I awoke, and fain would read aright
The moral of my dream,

For much I fear in this Christian land
Things are not what they seem.

Is there not now in our very midst,
Stealthily gaining ground,

A system which, like the ocean waves,
Is creeping all around;

Worming itself in our very homes,
Leaving no stone unturn'd,

To regain the power it had in the hour

When our forefathers it burn'd?